Buzz Feed, You Just Get Me

My therapist once asked  what I believe to be my primary coping skills.  My first reply was wine (of course). I then cited a long, hot bath with a good book, and random, mindless games or similar web searching.  Wine, a bath, and a book often do work wonderfully to cure depression or stress.  However, when anxiety also arises, I find myself unable to concentrate, so I frequently turn to sleep and mind-numbing activity to cope.  Such behaviors are an attempt to stop my brain from coursing rapidly through every single worse-case scenario one could possibly imagine. 

Satan's Children: Nightmares will ensue.

Given my extremely high levels of anxiety this past week, I ended up wasting a lot of time scrolling through hours of useless trending information on the interwebs.  I saw that damn mash-up of Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus’s face so many times that it appeared in my nightmares.  I learned what super bowl ads to watch for this coming weekend (because that’s important).  I also passed through several levels in god-damn, relationship- ruining Candy Crush, ensuring that there is now only one person on my friend list who has also passed the Soda Swamp.  Believe me, I recognize how pathetic said activity sounds, but it does indeed succeed in temporarily distracting me from the anxiety and depression. 

 

Aside : Anna Kendrick is expected to have a hilarious ad for Newcastle Brown Ale.  Just thought I should give you all the head's up.  You're welcome.

 

Me and Kanye: We're basically soul mates.

While my tedious time sucks served to divert my anxiety, an additional bonus is that I just so happened to learn several eye-opening (sarcasm font) things about myself this week thanks to multiple Buzz Feed quizzes.  First of all, I took the all-important self-concept affirming quiz, “Which Pop Diva are you?” Turns out I am Rihanna.  Who knew? Because “sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me” (except not really).  I then was so relieved to finally have an answer to the one question I have been pondering my entire life: "Which Rapper are You?" Of course you guessed it right. Yes, I'm Kanye because I "need to relax and accept that not everyone recognizes your amazing talent." Aint' that the truth, yo? I feel ya, Yeezus, I feel ya.

 

You might also be interested to know that if I were an 80s pop hit, I would be Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” because: “Sometimes you feel like a misunderstood outsider, but everyone adores you when you let down your guard and show them your sensitive side.”  Isn’t it so true, folks? You do love me when I’m vulnerable, and I thank you for that too. I also discovered, of equally high importance, that if I were a sandwich, I would be a grilled cheese.  I don’t even know what the fuck that is supposed to mean. 

But, alas, that is not all I gathered of myself.  Indeed, there’s even more; I told you I squandered a lot of fucking time this week.  If I were a dog, I would be a corgi. Hmmm …  I must admit I didn’t expect this one; I have always imagined myself as more of a Labrador.  All the same, I was quite pleased with the logic as, apparently, like the corgi, I “know how to be myself at all times without apology.”  In addition, the corgi and I also both have a “cute tush.”  I do have a cute booty, Buzz Feed! OMG!

Finally, here is the most paramount self-discovery I acquired from Buzz Feed all week (and, again, I spent like a shit-load of time there):  I should be a writer.  Yes, Buzz Feed! Thank you for this affirmation! Yes!

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What Career Should You Actually Have?

You are a maker. Creative from the day you were born, you spend most of your time thinking about the world you live in. You are open to new ideas and value beauty and originality more than most. We both know you’re not really the office type, so give yourself some room to create. Other occupations: director, producer, advertiser.

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I’m constantly having a discussion with others (and more frequently, in my own head) about how I might finally be ready to trust myself and attempt to make a career out of writing.  I do suppose I am already a writer per se, but I have never been paid, so it doesn’t really count, right?  I genuinely aspire to become an author, but that dream also terrifies me and prevents me from truly trying. 

But Buzz Feed has now changed everything! Now that this highly intellectually esteemed site has informed me I’m like a kick-ass grilled cheese sandwich with a cute corgi tush, I believe! Thanks, interwebs! I’m so glad you sucked me into hours of random, mindless quizzes because once I’m a successful author, I won’t need to cope with Candy Crush no more.  No more, sister, no more.  I’m retaining wine as a coping skill though.  Whether or not I obtain publication, you can be certain that I’m forever clinging to my wine.

You got: CEO

You are a visionary. You’ve always thought about the bigger picture and are most excited by new possibilities. Sure, you’ve been told to get your head out of the clouds every now and then, but what’s life without dreaming?! You might not be at the top just yet, but you’ll get there one day.

1. You got: Professor
   

   You are a thinker, in constant search of knowledge and answers to life’s most illusive questions. You love to analyze everything, testing out theories and pushing mental boundaries. Basically you’re an Einstein, but then again you probably already knew that.

 
And now, for your listening pleasure ...

                                     
                                         It's just so me, right?  Buzz Feed, you're  a genius.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Anxiety,

Dear Anxiety,

Fuck you! Seriously, just fuck off already, you awful little bitch.  I hate how you always sneak up on me and surprise me when I’m not even expecting it.  I know you have an especially difficult time staying away during these heavy winter months.  You must get cabin fever too, I suppose, but please – could you not disrupt my fucking life because you’re bored?  I seriously hate you, and hate is a really strong word.  I reserve it for very few folks.  I do have a handful of individuals I hope end up burning in hell – some relatives, some former bosses.  There are others, as yourself, that I have personified so that I can properly hate you – you, anxiety – the sneaky little cunt that creeps up on me,  freaks me out (often without justification), causes hyperventilation, and then renders me useless and frightened for hours.  There’s also my mistress manic-depression, who I in turn both love and hate for at least she has made me wiser and more empathetic.  What have you done for me, anxiety, other than make me miss hours of work, cry under the covers, and fear all interaction?  You really are just fucking awful – really.  I’ve personified self-doubt too, so I can tell her to kiss my ass whenever I have defeated her, but there’s something triumphant and motivating in that victory.  But you, anxiety, whenever you come around, you always win.  You’re a terrible, cheating, lying piece of shit.  You’re just a completely awful, wretched, stinking creature with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.  I could go on and on and continue to berate you.  Here’s the trouble with that though.  When I berate you, it’s also a judgment on me.  I, too, feel like an awful, worthless, weak, cry-baby asshole.  So, now, while the words flowed quickly, without hesitation or correction when I believed I was cursing only you from behind this key-board, now I sit here, immobile, hating myself, unsure of where to go from here as I realized I have damned my own self with such words.  I know I can’t go outside – no, no, no – you convinced me that terrible things will happen if I leave my home.  For some reason, I believe those awful, damaging lies.  Those lies drip from your mouth with such delight because you know you can make me such a hopeless, gullible, victim.  You’re some kind of evil, alright, some kind of evil.  I just wish you would fuck yourself and get out of my life.  You wicked thing – you know you have stolen all of my weapons for fighting you – my courage, my strength, my confidence, my determination.  You’re a liar and a good-for-nothing thief.  Just go to hell and get out of my life already.  You are the biggest fucking cunt I have ever encountered. 

Sincerely, Angela   

 

 

Amazing Grace

Whenever a church choir belts out “Amazing Grace,” there is an emotional stirring that is felt by most individuals of faith.  Even if the song is not sung in perfect pitch, there is a spirit that rouses inside us as though the faith of each individual vocalist creeps under one’s skin while those words of praise are sung to a higher power.  

I have often felt this same emotional connection to that age old, familiar hymn.  Now, though, my connection to this tune has become even more concrete and no longer rests in Christian constructions alone.  The line “was blind, but now I see” is not merely a metaphor for me.  Those lines are now a reality for which I am deeply appreciative.  Now, when I hear that song sung by the church choir, or faithful companions, I am not only filled with faith; I am also flooded with profound gratitude.  

 

I wasn’t born blind.  I possessed sight in my youth, although I had poor vision, with my first pair of glasses at age eight.  At that time, until my early twenties, glasses were able to correct my vision.  However, at age twenty-two, I developed an especially uncommon optical disease known as keratoconus.  I had never heard of this ailment until receiving my unfortunate diagnosis.

Keratoconus affects the structure of the cornea and creates distorted, narrow vision.  The shape of the cornea gradually changes from its normal round shape to a cone shape.  In its early stages, keratoconus can be corrected with contact lenses created to flatten the cornea and fix the corresponding vision problems.  As the disease progresses, the cornea becomes more conical and contact lenses will not stay in the eye.  Traditional glasses cannot correct the misshaping of the cornea.  Therefore, conventional solutions to vision difficulties are incapable of addressing severe keratoconus.  

 

 

As my own corneas became more conical, my vision unquestionably deteriorated. In an attempt to simplify my condition to others, I would often explain it as such: “Imagine that a normal cornea is the shape of a dime, and that is your viewfinder.  My corneas have become so severely misshapen that I view the world through the tip of a needle.”  


I eventually was declared legally blind; there is a difference between full blindness and legal blindness.  I could still function quite efficiently given my disability and thus the vast majority of individuals could not comprehend the severity of my vision challenges.  Lasik was not an option, though most of my coworkers at the time continued to misunderstand my illness and actually made such comments as, “Why are you taking FMLA? I didn’t miss any time when I got Lasik.”  To answer those empathy-absent individuals, I took medical leave because I had two full corneal transplants.

When explaining this surgery to my students, who were quite curious about my illness, I would question them, “Have you ever seen the movie The Eye with Jessica Alba?”  When most of them responded affirmatively, I informed that I had the exact same surgery her character had – also the same as Woody Harrelson’s character in Seven Pounds.  There was one slight problem with this explanation, though, which was that it inevitably led to this follow-up question: “Oh, do you see dead people now?”  

Much to the disappointment of my former students, there are no ghosts hanging around here; I did not receive the past visions of my donors.  However, I do most assuredly possess immense gratefulness for their donations.  Without donors, I would now be fully blind. Rather, as the old tune states “now I see.”  In fact, I see incredibly well; I don’t even need corrective lenses any more.  Such results are quite extraordinary, and my eye surgeon still refers to me as his “miracle patient.”  
 

While his praise is welcomed, it’s not the real reason I celebrate that man.  Because of his capable hands, I can now see my own laugh lines and gray hairs forming.  Such signs of aging do not bother me because I simply feel blessed with the regained ability to perceive such fine details.  Because of his capable hands, I can now witness the grin which appears on my young son’s face when I enter the room.  Because of his capable hands, I can now read all of my beloved books without need of a magnifier.  Because of his capable hands, I can now see the butterflies that light on the flowers in my backyard, and I can see each delicate bloom and petal.

I didn’t realize how much I had missed all of this until my sight was restored.  I had merely learned to adapt and knew that my life lacked details.  I accepted that as my normal and just figured out a way to function.  I suppose that’s what we must do in such circumstances -- just “make it work.” Therefore, I made it work for many years; now I get to be constantly amazed. I appreciate my sight more for having temporarily struggled. Subsequently, when the voices ring out at church “was blind, but now I see,” I say a silent hallelujah.  While it was a man who literally worked to remove my failing cornea and replace it with a donor, I know that God is the one who gave him such capable hands.  I am grateful, and I am blessed, and I am now able to see my blessings in all their brilliance every single day. 

                                        
                                                          

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm Kind of a Shitty Friend

My dear friend, Melissa, and her family were over to visit.  It had been several weeks since we had seen one another, and Melissa was so kind as to bring something along for me. 

“Here,” she said, handing me a plastic shopping bag with a few clothing items in it, “You left these at my house and I washed them for you.”

When I looked inside the bag, I found a pair of my pajama pants and underwear.  “Oh, yeah,” I said, recalling why these items had been left behind, “I’m kind of a shitty friend.   Sorry.”  These were the clothing items I had pissed through while vomiting in her bathroom and stumbling around her hallways in a drunken stupor.  I had just left them lying in a corner.  Yeah, I’m a really shitty friend. 

The night I pissed my pants at Melissa’s had been the evening of the Zombie Pub Crawl.  I don’t believe it is possible for me to attend this event and stay sober -- like, seriously, as impossible as male pregnancy.  Immediately following ZPC, I received a request from a blog follower to post about that evening.  I haven’t done so until now because I maybe – just maybe – don’t remember the majority of the night.  Further, as I didn't confront the Ying Yang Twins about their language this year, as I had done with DMX the year prior, the events didn't seem quite as blog-worthy.

Upon recently having bits of the night recounted to me, however, I am able to state the following: Not only am I kind of a shitty friend; I am kind of a shitty human being.  More importantly, one should not accept successive high-proof shots from old Somalian men.  Yeah, I blame the old man for every stupid thing I said or did that night.

Melissa and I attended ZPC with another wonderful friend, Jessica.   Respectively, we costumed ourselves as Alice in Wonderland, the Queen of Hearts, and the White Queen. When I got together with Jessica not long ago, I told her about the return of my piss pants and my belief that I can be a shitty friend.  Jessica, who is never one to abstain from telling the truth, informed me that I was kind of shitty a few times that night. I did recall, of my own accord, telling a DJ, “If you don’t play my request next, I will rip your fucking balls off. You hear me?  I know I put my request in before those skinny little whores there.”  So, yeah, Jessica was probably right about my behavior that evening. 

I also knew that I had yelled furiously at some man Jessica was talking to, although I could not remember what he said to so infuriate me.  I learned the comment had been, “If Alice doesn’t watch out, someone is going to crawl up her rabbit hole.”  Just in case you didn’t figure out, the rabbit hole he was referring to was my vagina. Yeah.

His comment, though quite disgusting, was warranted as I had passed out on the sidewalk.  Jessica informed me that after he made this comment and pointed out my pathetic, inebriated state, she decided she really ought to check on me.

 “And there I found you,” she said, “just spread eagle on the sidewalk.  ‘I am trying to trip people,’ you whispered and laughed hysterically, clearly amused with yourself.”

When I later asked why I had been lying there alone, as Melissa is certainly not a woman to abandon her friends, Jessica explained that Melissa was talking with two homeless men about the services available at her ministry’s community center. 

“Yeah,” Jessica laughed and rolled her eyes at me, “so there you were trying to trip people while Melissa is trying to get these men a good meal and some warm clothes.”   

Having such a stark contrast of interests pointed out to me, I confess that I can be a real shitty human being.  Compared to Melissa, though, we’re all kind of assholes.  I guess this post, then, is to say thank you to her for being such a kind, generous individual (even though she has since told me, “Oh no; those guys were shifty. They weren’t coming down for the chicken dinner”).  

I also owe a debt of gratitude to Jessica for ensuring no one entered my “rabbit hole.” Thank goodness for friends who love you all the same even when you’re spread eagle on the sidewalk.  

For the record, it may also be unwise to accept shots from strangers in large, bloody rabbit costumes.  Tell your children.

 

Not a Day for the Death Mobile

I groggily rose from my bed, and as I glanced out the window, I witnessed a thick snow rapidly building upon existing heaps of the heavy, dangerous substance.  While the white, sparkling accumulation indeed looks lovely resting upon the pine trees, I have a hard time appreciating that beauty when I know that such weather can so easily rob lives.  Therefore, that morning, as I observed the snow falling, I also remembered brakes screeching, cars slamming together, bones breaking, blood spilling, and life lost.  

 

I tried to shake the image from my mind, determined to not allow post-traumatic stress disorder to immobilize me.  I went about my usual morning routine, pouring a bowl of cereal and quickly perusing my social media.  That ritual turned out to be especially detrimental as several facebook statuses made note of the terrible weather and road conditions.  A number of them also included photographs of accidents they had passed during their travel -- semis in the ditch, sedans stuck in snow banks.  Such images made my heart beat faster and my breathing became erratic.

 

I tried to calm myself down and simply steel myself for my own travels.  I can do this. I can do this.  My car is safe.  I can do this.  While I was trying ardently to convince myself I was capable of traveling, I then remembered that my husband was driving my car and the minivan was also currently out of commission with a flat tire. This meant I was left with the vehicle that we have long affectionately referred to as “the death mobile.”

 

The pins on the hood are necessary for it to stay closed.

The children are not allowed to be passengers in the death mobile, a 1996 Pontiac Bonneville with 248,000 miles on it.  We first began referring to it as the death mobile approximately five years ago after my husband’s collision with a deer. Even at that time, it was simply not worth the investment to properly fix the damage done.  Rather, my father made some unique and impressive home repairs. This included jumping upon the hood of the car and smashing it back into shape with the force of his body and a large sledge hammer.  This also included replacing the wrecked head lights with a set from the old 1978 three quarter ton Ford that sat decaying in the back forty.   As the airbag exploded, the steering wheel now lacks proper cover and one must place two wires together should he or she wish to honk the horn.  In short, it’s a real piece of shit on wheels.  

 

However, we have generally found the condition of the Bonneville hilarious.  I would not drive it often, but before the children if I had to pick up groceries or run other errands in this car, I felt totally bad-ass.  To me, riding in that car spoke, “Yo, look at me, I do not give a fuck.  I will run your stupid little Kia Soul right off the road if you can’t drive the fucking speed limit, you skinny little whore.”  In this particular moment, I did not feel bad ass or invincible in any way whatsoever.  I felt panicked and terrified, and that panic grew into a full blown anxiety attack when my spouse called me to warn that I be careful driving to work as the roads were quite slick and the weather conditions dangerous.  I began hyperventilating and stammering out words, repeating “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”  Tears began to stream down my face and I began shaking at the thought of driving that unsafe vehicle, which really ought to be driven by no one – ever. I simply could not drive it on slick roads, potentially leading to a fatal crash far too reminiscent of the past that yet haunted me.  

 

Beep, Beep, Mother - Fuckers! (Yeah, not today)

Therefore, my husband hung up with me and called my employer to explain the situation while I headed to the medicine cabinet for my clonazepam, taking a tablet and then crawling back under the covers where I was safe and sound. I wasn’t bad ass and I wasn’t brave.  I suppose my PTSD had defeated me in this instance.  I know that just a year ago I would have been ridden with guilt for missing work under the same circumstances.  This time, as I calmed myself back under the comfort of the covers, that guilt was not allowed to join the other demons.  I recognized that my PTSD is valid and this was just a day that the death mobile should not be driven.  I was assuredly afraid to drive that unique vehicle in inclement weather conditions, but I am also assured that such fear is not my fault.  It’s not my fault.

Resolutions for the Rest of You

This year, I might try to lose some weight.  I might try to play less Candy Crush. I might also try to practice more patience with my spouse.  While all of these would be wonderful resolutions, the truth is I’m not as worried about myself as I am with the rest of ‘Murica.  Therefore, this year I decided to make resolutions for the rest of you.  Listen up, assholes! I just might offend every person possible with this post.  In 2014, I resolve that you people need to do the following:

1.       Get off your fucking phones! Seriously, enough already.  Put the phone down. Stop texting.  Stop checking statuses. Stop playing whatever app is all the rage right now and actually have a conversation with the person sitting right across from you. 

 

2.       Stop glorifying all the hot messes. This is for you main stream media.  Stop it right now! I mean it.  No more Miley Cyrus. No more Lindsey Lohan. No more Amanda Bynes. No! No! No! If any young girl deserved your attention last year, it was Malala Yousafzai.  I doubt most young folks could even tell me why Malala matters, and I blame the media.  Can intelligence and integrity please take the spotlight this year?

 

3.       No more selfies.  I’m sick of all you young girls making duck faces in the bathroom mirror, and I certainly never wanted to see fucking half nude Geraldo Rivera. What makes you people think that shit is attractive? And I got some real problems with you too, Mr. President. Who takes a selfie at Nelson Mandela’s memorial service? Shame on you; you really ought to know better.

 



                                     

                                 Don't nobody want to see that shit. Put your old man balls away. 

 

4.       Stop the partisan bullshit. Enough. Democracy can be defined as “a form of government in which all eligible citizens participate equally – either directly or through elected representatives.”  Hmmm ….  doesn’t America continue to call itself a democracy? I’m sure as shit, however, that my participation isn’t equal to that of fucking Koch Industries or Goldman Sachs.  I’m disgusted with our bought and purchased politicians.  A government shutdown? Start putting your political parties aside and put the people first – and not just the people with the biggest wallets. 

 

5.       Stop wearing knit caps at unnecessary times.  I honestly thought this trend would have been long dead by now, but I keep spotting teens and fucking hipsters sporting knit caps indoors and in the oppressive heat of summer.  What the fuck, guys? If you’re not in a snow storm, get that stupid shit off your head.  And do I even need to mention Uggs?

 

                                  The knit cap really completes the douche-bag look.

6.       No more posting your prayers on facebook.  I have no problem with religion.  JC and I have a good relationship.  However, when I pray it’s in earnest solemnity.  God isn’t trolling facebook to see if you need some help in your relationship.  You can offer gratitude and you can request prayer assistance, but the actual address “Dear God” ought not appear in your feed.  Keep it up and I’m going to be posting “Dear God, give me patience to deal with all the assholes that think posting prayers on facebook makes them more pious than me.”

 

7.       Stop asking “You mad, bro?” Okay, I’m going to admit that I’m so unhip that I don’t even know where this originated from.  However, I do know that it irritates the shit out of me.  In particular, this annoys me when I receive this reply after reprimanding a student about his or her behavior.  I ain’t your bro, but yeah, I am mad. Shut the fuck up.

 

8.       Stop telling me my grandmother will be raped by Satan or I will die a slow, miserable death if I don’t repost your online image about ending cancer.  Yes, I think cancer sucks. Yes, I love the Lord.  Yes, I appreciate the men and women of the military.  Don’t you threaten me with some bad luck just because I don’t repost the meme supporting your cause though. 

 

  

9.       Stop defending ignorance with more ignorance. Oh, what’s that you say? Paula Deen and Phil Robertson had their first amendment rights violated when they experienced backlash for the really dumb shit they said? Yeah, you might be wrong about that one, buddy. Please study the first amendment again.  I don’t believe it reads: “Say any fucking thing you want without consequence.”  If it did, we could expect the young kid working at McDonald’s to say,  “Here you go. Enjoy your Big Mac meal, you fat fuck” without repercussion. 

 

 

10.   Stop taking pictures of your food. Just stop.  If Wolfgang Puck comes to your house and cooks you and your significant other a five-course meal, post away my friend.  Instagram the shit out of that meal.  But, every single person on the planet knows what fucking french fries look like.  Nobody needs to see your appetizer from Applebee’s. Believe me.

 

                   

                    You just ordered these french fries, and no one gives a fuck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Year We all Got More Dumber: 2013 in Review

As I sat down at my laptop this morning, Google kindly asked me if I would like to remember the moments of 2013.  My immediate internal response was a resounding NO.  Why would I? While 2013 was a year of calm and contentment in my personal life, the year in pop culture left much to be desired.

Last week, I began on the venture of creating an annual “best of” list.  Given that this little blog has survived over a year, I figured it was time to start some tradition around this place.  In 2012, I provided readers with an end of the year round-up of all things awesome, including Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl and Amy Poehler’s brilliant comedics.  In 2013, however, Parks and Recreation went and jumped the shark too and I read the worst damn book ever published – ever (here’s a clue …  Holy Crap - it was awful).  Thus, as I set about creating my own year in review, I severely struggled to find any moment in the media worthy of recognition.  Due to my toils, there are two results: 1) I failed to publish this year in review during 2013. Whatever. Lay off. 2) This list offers a twist and provides quite different categories than the traditional “best of” I had hoped to create. Enjoy!

Most Misogynistic Music Video

I do believe the winner is clear here, so all hail Robin Thicke for his thoroughly obscene video to the admittedly catchy hot single of the summer, “Blurred Lines.” I know the video is intended to get your heart pulsing a bit as you imagine sexy, sultry scenes of desire in your head.  However, Robin looks far too much like his father Alan and, hence, even with beautiful naked women shimmying about him, I keep picturing Dr. Seaver and the children of Growing Pains.  I miss cute, wholesome little Kirk Cameron.

 

Most Obnoxious Viral Video

If you did the Harlem Shake this year or tried Prancercise, you know that web videos often created more buzz than the stars of major cinema.  Forget Iron Man; there’s Bat Dad.  2013 was also the year when we had one of the biggest mysteries of the world answered: What does the fox say?  Yes, Ylvis takes home the top honor as the most obnoxious viral video of 2013.  You couldn’t get away from this video, and it produced quite the repugnant accompanying ear-worm as well.  In addition, it spawned a whole host of parodies, tee shirts, and even a children’s book.  No book should ever have a cover that reads “based on the popular you tube video.” Ugh.  

 

Most OMG Miley Cyrus Moment

No matter what kind of stunt Miley pulls this year, I promise this will be my only mention of her in 2014.  Can we all resolve the same?  We need to stop giving this misguided little girl so much attention for her shenanigans, but having said that, all eyes were on Miley in 2013.  Miley had her tongue sticking out and her ass hanging out all over the place, like at the Amsterdam awards show where she also lit a joint on stage.  Of course, though, nothing tops her pornographic performance at the MTV VMAs.  It was during this performance that she also licked the ass of a giant teddy bear and used a foam finger as a dildo.  Keep it classy, Miley, keep it classy. 

 

Biggest Jack-Ass Joke of a Politician

2013 certainly left us no shortage of total jack-ass, sleazy, corrupt, partisan games playing, dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks politicians.  Where do I begin? Perhaps with Anthony Weiner and his “package,” seemingly oblivious to the fact that it’s unfavorable to send dick pics to strangers when you’re in the public eye, or, you know, ever.  We were also thoroughly impressed with the brilliant minds of our political leaders when Ted Cruz decided to entertain us with Dr. Seuss during his September “filibuster.”  Marco Rubio got thirsty, Obama got his web site all kinds of wrong, and don’t even get me started on that cry-baby John Boehner.  But, none of these men could possibly compete with the biggest jack-ass politician of them all: Rob Ford.  You totally earned this title, buddy.  I don’t even know where to begin with this crack-smoking, belligerent mess, so I kindly direct you to this awesome compilation of Rob Ford’s greatest moments.  Don’t worry about him, folks, he’s “got plenty to eat at home.” Eeewwwww.

Biggest Mindless Time Suck

Candy Crush.  Need I say more?  Yes, yes, I must indeed say more.  I must say: “Fuck you, Candy Crush. Fuck you.  I could have been so productive in 2013 were it not for your addictive nature.”  I sure as shit hope I accomplish something greater than beating level 378 in only 12 moves in 2014. I am a pathetic mess, but apparently I’m not alone as Candy Crush earns $928,408 in estimated daily revenue and gets 98,387 daily installs. We’re a sad lot, ‘Murica. We all need to get our shit together in 2014.

 

 

And one last thing … fuck you too, Justin Timberlake, for failing to help me reach my 2013 resolutions. You didn’t even follow me back on twitter.  Whatev. I’m so over you.